


prepare for rain

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8486314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: “First you must make a delicious bowl of tea; lay the charcoal so the water boils; arrange the flowers as they are in the field; in the summer suggest coolness, in the winter, warmth; do everything ahead of time; prepare for rain; and give those with whom you find yourself every consideration.”
  - Sen no Rikyu





	

**1\. shibui**

It feels strange to see Akaashi in the high school uniform while Bokuto is dressed casually. It makes sense—Akaashi has been dutifully attending classes while Bokuto had been sick in his apartment, living off meager rice porridge and prickling hot ginger. 

Akaashi rises from the bench when he spots him, book abandoned by his side. Bokuto ducks beneath the overhang just in time for the first droplets of rain to scatter across the ground. By the time he’s heaving out a long exhale of relief, the clouds have burst into a downpour. 

“Guess we’ll have to wait,” Bokuto says. The rain jackhammers on the roof, loud enough for Bokuto to shout in his ‘outdoor voice’ or, as Akaashi liked to call it, ‘without concern to eardrums.’ He expects Akaashi to serve a caustic rebuke, or at least throw a patented glare. 

But Akaashi just says, “Guess so,” and opens his book again. 

So it was one of those days. 

Sometimes, Akaashi would fall into a strange mood. He would listen intently on Bokuto’s words, answering succinctly and mildly. He didn’t say ‘no, Bokuto-san’ or ‘that would be impractical and dangerous, Bokuto-san,’ but he would say, ‘if you’d like’ with quiet deference. It usually happened on rainy days—Bokuto assumed it had something to do with the precipitation, or the mildew, or the sunshine and vitamins, or some other sciency fiddleymathing that would inspire Kuroo to deliver sermons. But he remembers a sunny day, too, when he was screaming into his hands and huddled in the corner of the club room. When he finally looked up, Akaashi had been kneeling beside him with that same humbled expression. 

“You cold?” he tries. 

Akaashi shakes his head. 

“You’re cold,” he decides. He unravels his scarf and reravels the scarf over Akaashi’s head. Akaashi waits obediently. When Bokuto finishes with a flourish, Akaashi returns to his book. 

“You know, this is why I got sick. The rain and the cold and everything,” Bokuto says, shoving out his feet and leaning back on his hands. After staying so long in bed, the faint stretch relieves his aching muscles. “Hey, if idiots don’t catch colds, does that mean I’m smart?” 

“Do you remember why you got sick?” Akaashi asks, never leaving his book. 

“If there are puddles,” Bokuto says piously, “then someone needs to jump in them.” And it had been fun, leaping from puddle to puddle, until he fell ill. Akaashi had almost been nice to him, offering him tissues and boiling home remedies in the kitchenette. Then it had all gone bad and he crawled to the hospital, where the nurses had been nice and spoke soothingly over his stuttering inhales. He banned Akaashi from his apartment because Kuroo had been talking about germs and microbes and the point was, as he said over the phone with his plugged-up nose and drying throat, it was simply better that Akaashi didn’t get infected with the demon cold from hell.

“Still,” Bokuto says, “the rain is nice.” 

“Is it,” Akaashi murmurs. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty.” Bokuto frowns. “But it messes up my hair.” Though that wasn’t right—his hair was always cool, no matter what, but the rain would flatten down the strands and he would have to slick them back to keep his eyesight clear, and feel them softly falling outwards when he moved. 

“So your hair is intentional.”

“You know it is, Akaashi! We’ve talked about this!” 

“I suppose.” Akaashi drapes his fingers over his closed book. “Though not everyone will think the rain is pretty.”

“Yeah, but everyone thinks my hair is great, right?”

“If it’s about tastes or aesthetics, it’s difficult to agree upon an ideal. Or, to put it another way. You may find something beautiful for different reasons than I would.” 

“Oh,” Bokuto says, a little stupidly. It feels strange, too, to hear Akaashi speak about the abstract. Akaashi is usually sharp barbs and cunning plans. He maps out the best play to defeat the next team in good blocks and ideal rotations, a grounded and confident cartographer. He isn’t the wispy dreamer type. But Bokuto grandly humors Akaashi in his strange mood, and hums with some small modicum of encouragement. 

“For example,” Akaashi continues, “I find this sight beautiful. It’s natural, simple, and transient. It evokes an appreciation of life.” 

“I thought so too,” Bokuto says. “Or something like that.” Except he hadn’t really thought something like that. He simply liked the mirthful droplets and thought he would enjoy running through the rain. It’d be annoying for his hair, of course, but his heart beat quicker when he remembers the first raindrops falling upon his shoulders. However, his battered lungs almost flinch at the thought of a returning cold.

“The composition is pleasing,” Akaashi says. 

“Yeah.” And Bokuto squints at the sight. 

The cement sidewalk has been covered in puddles, the thick raindrops sending thin ripples across the surface. The vague reflection of the flowering trees distorts and becomes a mirror of only colors, showing the dark bark of the trees and the gray fleeced sky. Straight ahead, a single young sapling bends under the weight of the rain. Behind the little tree, a heavy mist pours down the mountains. Groves of trees emerge from the fog, and then disappear again under the drifting haze. The rain thrums down in diagonal lines. 

A bit of cold lingers in the air. Bokuto feels warm, wrapped up in his thick coat. His splayed-out hand on the bench remains a few centimeters away from Akaashi’s thigh. 

“But if the rain stops, this wouldn’t be beautiful,” Akaashi says.

“It’d still look nice,” Bokuto says.

“No,” Akaashi says. “The rain disrupts the symmetry.”

Bokuto still thinks the park would look nice without the rippling rain. The flat pools of water would precisely reflect the symmetrical row of trees. With the mist ushered onwards, the view from the bench would be able to see the entirety of the mountain range. 

“Maybe,” is all he says, because he doesn’t like to see Akaashi so vulnerable, so he wants to be nice. It’s intrusive to see Akaashi hold himself in such a strict line, hands folded so delicately over the waning pages of his book. Bokuto doesn’t think he should be looking, but he looks. 

“Is something wrong?” Akaashi asks. 

“No,” Bokuto says. “I just like looking at you. About—being beautiful, and stuff like that. Aren’t you the ideal, Akaashi? I like looking at you.” 

Akaashi keeps his eyes forward, focused on the yielding trees. 

Bokuto’s not great with cameras like Akaashi—his thumb cheerfully blocks half the sights of his school trip to Okinawa, the sea a blur of blinding diamonds in the other half—but he thinks this sight would be a good picture. Akaashi stares at the rain, the overhang frames the sky, and his dark umbrella stretches straight out. But it’s Akaashi, most of all. Akaashi always had a deep quiet to him, and his actions were always simple and clean. A setter with power and grace etched to the long lines of his arms, the width of his chest. Even when he only sits, his back is straightened with a natural precision. It’s easy to see why people would like Akaashi, what with his subdued tones and intelligent tongue and subtle implications. 

“You should spend more time looking at your homework,” Akaashi says quietly.

“But you’re way better than homework,” Bokuto says, because it’s true. He likes looking at Akaashi because Akaashi was interesting, too, with all the sharp things he said and all the silent things he didn’t say. Like the tranquil solitude of a room that only had a table and a teacup, except there would be the light streaming against the grain of the wood and the shadows would fall like slim waves on the tatami mat and the cedar table would stand firm on four short legs and the teacup would be perfect, solid in his hands, grooved with precise lines. 

“You’re beautiful like a teacup,” Bokuto tells him, but for some reason, Akaashi’s forehead creases like he’s puzzled. 

“Is that a compliment,” Akaashi asks slowly. 

“Yeah! Yes, yeah. I like looking at you, Akaashi.” Bokuto inches towards him because it’s cold, a slight sting to his cheeks. “I like looking at you more than the rain.” 

“It’s not the same,” Akaashi says. “It’s different, like how this drizzle and a storm would be different.”

“Sure,” Bokuto says, “but I love you a lot, more than anything else.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said that you love me,” Akaashi says, not even waiting for Bokuto to finish his last rolling proclamation. Bokuto wants to laugh and protest, but now that he contemplates this, he supposes it’s true. He had meant to say it in some poignant private time, cuddled together in a cocoon of warmth. But Akaashi looks amicable, and Bokuto grins sheepishly. 

“Oh, oops,” Bokuto says. 

“Oops,” Akaashi echoes. He looks pensive, but too pensive. The rain has slowed to a steady lull. It’s enough of a gap for Bokuto to grab Akaashi’s hand. He stands up from the bench.

“Let’s run for it,” Bokuto says, because he’s had enough of the cold and his cold. Akaashi slips his book into his backpack and unfurls his umbrella with one hand, but his fingers still cling onto Bokuto’s sleeve.

**2\. wabi-sabi**

“You got wet, Akaashi!” Bokuto laughs once he swings his apartment door shut. Akaashi shakes off the droplets from his umbrella, unperturbed by the way his hair had become damp and slick. Bokuto had steadily jogged through the sudden heavy downpour, but Akaashi must have kept the umbrella over him and not himself. And usually, Akaashi would say things like ‘slow down, Bokuto-san’ or ‘you’ll catch a cold, Bokuto-san,’ but this time, he’s quiet and thoughtful. 

“Let’s get you warmed up,” Bokuto says. “Sorry for the mess.” His apartment is sparse, but a month of reluctant bed rest has left his laundry piling in the corners and a languid parity to his kitchenette. Akaashi stands by the light switch, but makes no motion to flick it on. The room rests in shadows. 

Bokuto grabs the cleanest towel from his bathroom and almost stubs his toe on some abandoned shipping boxes in his hurry back. But he drops the fluffy cotton over Akaashi’s head, rubbing at his ears with unnecessary vigor. Akaashi allows him this touch. His hands hang low by his sides. Water drips down the small curve of his neck. The gray of his uniform has been matted down and the white of his shirt has turned almost transparent, fabric pinching into small white hills. The rest clings to his skin, moving with his breath. 

“You should take a warm bath,” Bokuto says. “It’s to the right.” The last he adds because Akaashi hadn’t stepped into his apartment for a month, and he wonders if he’s forgotten because Akaashi is practical and pragmatic, and any other day, he would already be drying his hair in the bathroom. 

“Oh,” Bokuto says, because Akaashi isn’t speaking, “I’ll make something warm for you to eat, too.” 

Akaashi finally narrows the gap between them and presses a searing hot kiss against his mouth. Bokuto kisses back, of course, because he’s grateful for any attention that Akaashi would give. But Akaashi tastes like the rainwater and his hands are cold when they snake around Bokuto’s sides. 

“We should get you warmed up,” Bokuto says unsurely when Akaashi pulls back. “I’ll—I’ll wash your back and everything, Akaashi. I don’t want you to catch a cold.” 

“Like you did.” 

“Like I did,” Bokuto says, reluctantly. 

“If you want to warm me up,” Akaashi says, “then warm me up.” His eyes glint dangerously, his jaw set stubbornly. Bokuto could insist until his voice wore out, raw, but he thinks he could argue with a rock and have better results. A rock could be worn down by wind and weather. Akaashi would never budge, so Bokuto kisses him and lets the taste seep into his mouth. 

Bokuto’s bed is not very big. Akaashi pushes aside the new blankets and lies down on the bed. Bokuto crawls over him and kisses the damp side of his neck because he has missed Akaashi this long month, and even though he knows Akaashi probably didn’t miss him back. Bokuto still misses him even now, despite Akaashi’s lean hands wrapping around his back. He needs to cherish these moments when he’s not clawing at his blankets and screaming into his pillow and Akaashi has to sit beside him and look sad. This is better. He kisses Akaashi.

Akaashi is cold. The locks of his hair fall in thick strands on his neck. Bokuto clumsily undoes Akaashi’s necktie and helps him out of his wet jacket. The fabric falls to the ground in wet thumps beside his university books. Bokuto helps Akaashi out of his shirt. His skin is still cold and damp. His chest almost glistens and he must be cold, but Akaashi only rubs Bokuto’s arms, as if reassuring him. When Bokuto kisses down his sternum, a softer chill fills his mouth. Even in the dim light, he can see small protrusions of goosebumps rising from where the wet fabric has been peeled away. 

“You’re cold,” Bokuto says, accusatory. He narrows his eyes in mock anger, but Akaashi has slipped his fingers beneath Bokuto’s loose sleeve and touches on the slight bump, a barely discernable scar from the IV drip. 

“It’s better this way,” Akaashi says. 

“It’s not,” Bokuto says. To prove this, he kisses him even fiercer. Akaashi is still cold for a while, even while Bokuto kisses down the chilled slope of his shoulder. The smooth skin stretches tight over the bone. His biceps are broad, too, strengthened by daily discipline and due respect for volleyball. Akaashi still carries the rain smell, which curls like a delicate fragrance against his natural scent. And maybe this is part of why Akaashi is the ideal for beauty or aesthetics or taste or whatever, because Akaashi is perfect in his small sighs and hitched breaths and ropy muscles. Even while lying in bed, he possesses a natural deliberation, a languid unwinding to his arms pressed above his head. His nipples are hard underneath Bokuto’s mouth. His hip bones protrude and nestle perfectly against Bokuto’s wandering hands. The crooks of his bare legs are hitched at an elegant angle. 

Akaashi is still cold to the touch. Though he doesn’t say much, he looks disappointed when Bokuto has to roll over and grope around his wooden drawer. He pushes his chin against Bokuto’s shoulder, hands passing over his sides in whispery touches. The clinginess is endearing and unusual. But when Bokuto turns again, Akaashi’s face is composed and calm. Or, at least, what little expression that Bokuto can see is composed and calm. The pall of the clouds casts his figure into a silhouette. Shadows slip across his back. Bokuto kisses the contour of his neck. 

“Come on my chest,” Akaashi murmurs into his ear. 

“I thought you said that was messy.” 

“It is.” Akaashi pets down his hair. “Please do it today.” 

Bokuto feels warmer, and Akaashi must surely be warmer, too. Akaashi is sweating and gasping and he slams his eyes shut when he finally comes in thin spurts. Bokuto makes a mess out of Akaashi’s chest, too, striping it while he still pumps himself. Akaashi’s face has flushed, though he doesn’t appear feverish. He simply looks vindictively pleased, almost smug, about his new markings. 

“Here,” Bokuto says, grabbing a clean-looking scraggly towel. He pats down Akaashi’s neck and chest clumsily, but his bed rest has trained him too well and he associates his bed, overwhelmingly, with sleep. He folds his elbow beneath his head and closes his eyes. Akaashi’s hands carefully pull away the towel from his loose grip. The sound of rain cascades down on the rugged roof. The water drains from the gutter and streams down the pipes. 

A few minutes later, Bokuto opens his eyes. Akaashi still sits up, but he hunches over with his shoulders tight and wrists crossed on his knees. He forms a triangle with his arms. He stares out the small square window, modest in the peeling plaster. Bokuto’s apartment faces a small cluster of damp trees. The rain pours down upon them. 

“You should stay over if it’s a storm,” Bokuto says hopefully. The clouds have heavy rolling bulges. The rain is constant. They shimmer for a second before they ripple into puddles. 

He likes it when Akaashi sleeps overnight at his apartment, though it’s always strange, too, to see Akaashi pull on his uniform and pass through the apartment gates. At least when they’re alone, he doesn’t have to listen to how he must have a great personality, how he must be funny, how he has to be charming, like the passerbys will whisper to each other, bewildered why Akaashi would date him otherwise. Maybe they’re right, but Bokuto tries not to dwell. He simply likes the quiet moments when Akaashi still rests on his bed, arms curled around him.

“It’s different, isn’t it,” Akaashi says. “A simple rainfall and a storm.” 

“Yeah,” Bokuto says. “Probably.” He strokes Akaashi’s back, riding over the small bumps of his spine. Akaashi has done the same for him in many different ways, in stroking his thumb over his hand or kissing his forehead or resting his palm against the small of Bokuto’s back when Bokuto is simply too busy clawing at his arms and sobbing his furious tears. He knows Akaashi would grow furious if he ever voiced this, but sometimes he wishes he had an ounce of Akaashi’s calmness, his thoughtfulness, his perfection. Sometimes, when Bokuto is still shaking and his throat has grown hoarse, he wishes he had some measure of control, if he could be less filled with shattering cracks. 

But he won’t say this because he wants to avoid Akaashi’s ire and sorrow, especially when Akaashi looks so angrily miserable and vulnerable. 

“Or the mountains,” Akaashi says. “The ocean, the stars. They’re beautiful in a way that’s different from the way a teacup is beautiful. They’re bigger. More vast. It fills you with something.” 

“Something?” 

“Something,” Akaashi echoes. “Like love.” 

“They’re all nice, I guess,” Bokuto says vaguely, because he has no definitive thoughts about mountains and oceans and stars. 

“Not equally,” Akaashi says. “Things that are vast are more beautiful than things that are small.” 

“That’s probably not true,” Bokuto says. 

“A storm is big, and vast, and strong,” Akaashi says. “And it’s untouchable. You can touch the water and the wind, but not the storm.” 

“Just because something’s untouchable doesn’t mean it’s better,” Bokuto says. “I mean, I’m touching you, aren’t I?” For some reason, this has become keenly important. He wraps his arms loosely around Akaashi’s shoulders, peering into his face worriedly. Akaashi works his fingers over his hand, the bones of his knuckles drawn sharp. 

“To put it another way,” Akaashi says finally, “a teacup can’t touch a storm. It can’t hold it. It can’t help, it can’t comfort the storm. So what good is it? What good is something so uselessly beautiful?” 

Bokuto hasn’t thought much about teacups, either, but he thinks they’re good at holding tea and leaves and water, and they’re nice to have on display, too, though he only has some empty cans of tea from vending machines. But maybe Akaashi isn’t speaking about things he can understand, so he only hugs him tighter and mumbles a soothing sound. With the shuddering rain, everything feels a little damper and colder. 

Akaashi distantly stares out the window. His hands are buried into each other, curled over the thin blankets. He turns his face with quiet interest towards the rain, as if seeking out the trickling shadows of rainwater to mark his unbroken skin.


End file.
